Interlude
by Spicy-obsession
Summary: WORK IN PROGRESS Sometimes an interlude between seasons is all it takes. Chance of romance later on, slight language, will be completed in 5 chapters. Read and review. Flames are accepted.
1. Summer

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Okay, maybe the crappy plot.

**A/N:** Do not kill me. As I have said before, I like writing short thingies. Eventually I will become good at writing them. Don't kill me, seriously. I wrote this because the damn plot bunny bit me on the way home from school.

A heads-up. The whole layout of the fic may seem weird to you, but I'm trying to be coherent; I'm trying my damnedest. It goes in order of the school year, like first summer, autumn, winter, spring, and then summer again. It's a five-chapter type thing. No more, no less.

Once again, before HBP, I figure around Ginny's 3rd/4th year. I really like that time period.

* * *

Summer. That time when it's too hot to do anything, and I'm stripped down to my underwear, lying down on my bed alone. It's when the empty roads kick up long stretches of red-brown dust every time a slight breeze blows through, and the dirt floats, still and clogging, for a few minutes until settling down again for the next wind. 

The skies are cloudless, the color of listless, washed-out blue, and it stretches on and over that uncertain horizon, swallowing the rest of existence whole. The air is stagnant and dry, dry enough to feel like cotton in my mouth when I breathe in, and the unforgiving sun beats down on us.

Everyone and everything's too lazy to move, to do a single damn thing. The days begin early, with a brief sunrise, and then it's all bright sunlight from there, dragging its way through the mornings, the afternoons, and finally settling down in the evenings, only to crash its way into Night's territory, refusing to set until about 9 P.M.

It also means no school. Summer brings the hope of a surprise visit from Harry or Hermione, maybe even both. It means that Mum makes a pitcher of fresh, tart lemonade everyday, seemingly for no reason at all just _because_ she can. It's when most of my brothers come home, and there's no end to the chaos and cacophony that erupts in our Burrow, especially the kitchen.

They all run rampant out in the garden, chasing gnomes, playing quidditch, and doing whatever boys do, getting mud and grime on their faces, their hands, and their clothes. It's everywhere. It sticks and leaves marks on whatever they touch, and Mum raises hell as she finds her once nice, tidy house messy and dirtied, almost beyond help because that's a lot of grubby brothers to clean up after.

During summer, the days crawl, and the nights are when I become active and awake. The dryness is replaced by a crisp, sharp scent of dew lacing the grass and bushes. The stars appear for me, and they spread out endlessly across as far they dare, as far as I can hold it all in. The moon is often absent, but her presence not much missed. I go outside and lie down on the grass, looking up to gaze, to breathe, to live. More times than not, I end up falling asleep under the sky.

But sometimes, it gets too dry and too silent, and that's when it rains. Briefly, in a torrent, a light sprinkle, with thunder and lightning, whichever way possible. At anytime of the day, ranging from a few minutes to the rest of the day. The water makes the roads muddy and sluggish, soaking the atmosphere with humidity, and keeping me inside. Most of the time. Occasionally, I'll go out with Ron, running, laughing, and screaming until I'm thoroughly drenched and muddied.

Time seems to hold its breath during those 2 months. We're in a place where bad news cannot touch us, another world, another reality altogether. A fantasy I wish could last until the ends of time. It's when I have my brothers all to myself, and I know that they'll come home safely because they're always home and always with me. We all fall asleep in our beds, listening to each other's soft, even breathing. Even though I feel as if I could kill all 6 of them with my bare hands at times, I still love them and could never really bring myself to hurt them.

Summer brings the sun. Summer hushes time. Summer is a utopia. My utopia, which no one else can claim.

* * *

"Ginny, you need to hurry up." 

I stop tracing my fingers against the glass window and see Hermione gazing at me like a mother would a daughter. We've been in Diagon Alley for a few days now, and we only just started shopping. I sigh and let my hand drop to my side.

"Okay. Where to next?"

She smiles. "Flourish and Blott's. And after that, Madame Malkin's."

I shrug and fall into step with her while she catches up with Harry and Ron, leaving the quidditch shop behind and the CleanSweep's latest model. Harry and Hermione arrived at the Burrow a week before we went to Diagon Alley. Of course, Ron had been ecstatic, and the bookworm blissfully ignorant of his awkward attempts at showing affection.

That's not to say no one else noticed, however.

"All right," Harry says, "I have the list of books we need for this year. You'll be all right getting your books Ginny?"

His bright green eyes are warm. I nod, quietly admiring how he still looked handsome since the day I saw him. He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"Good then. Let's head in."

We push open the doors and within the space of a less than a minute, I lose sight of the three of them, swept away by the ever-growing crowd of people buying their last-minute school supplies. Right. Time to find my books. I take out the list and read it as I'm walking in a random direction.

People bump into me along the way, and they continue to move, not bothering to excuse themselves. If anything, they didn't see me. No matter, I am rather small. Not like Ron, who seems shoot up several inches every few months or so.

It doesn't take long to check off all the books I bought on my list. I figure it's been about 20 minutes since we first came in, and Harry did say we were only staying here for half an hour because Ron says he gets headaches from being too near to books. Hermione gave him an odd look. Anyway, I'm walking through the rows, running my fingers over book spines. Some are leathery, some rough, and some brand new, the gleam coming off of them.

The store reeks of new books and old books. It is a strange comforting smell that reminds me of the fact that less than 3 days remain before we all go back to Hogwarts. No more summer. No more naps. No more falling asleep on the grass. Soon the days will become shorter, and the moon will come back, overshadowing that stars that I have looked at for the past several weeks. Don't get me wrong; I like Hogwarts. It's nice to have a big, thick bed of my own. It's just…

Ron and Hermione never quite manage to meet my eyes, as though they are avoiding someone contagious. I suppose that they still haven't completely forgotten what happened. I sure wish they did though. I'm not sick. I'm not a freak. It hurts, how they whisper sometimes. Well, at least Harry doesn't look at me that way. I don't think I could bear it if he did.

Out loud, I say, "I'm not strange."

"Now there's something new," a voice declares with a lazy drawl.

I hear an insidious, high-pitched giggle behind me, and I turn around to find Malfoy, Parkinson, Crabbe, and Goyle. How lovely. I hug my new books closer to me. He smirks.

"Don't worry, Weasel, I won't try to steal your ratty, hand-me-down rubbish," he says mockingly.

I feel my face flush because what he just said is true, and I can only answer him with silence. If possible, he smirks ever wider, and adds on, "So where's your Protector? Off snogging with that Mudblood?"

All my responses die, and my mouth shuts down of its own accord. I can't say anything that will make him go away. If I walk away, ignoring them, they will simply follow me around this book shop until I run into Harry or Ron. I can't just stand here, letting them having a go at me. But what can _I_ do?

Parkinson sniffs, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Aw come on, Draco, she's no fun to play around with. Let's go find that stupid brother of hers or Harry bloody Potter. Or better yet, that frizzy-haired Muggle."

Crabbe and Goyle laugh in response though it doesn't quite register as normal sounds of laughing that one would make. Malfoy waves his hand at her dismissively and says with authority, "They'll probably come looking for this one sooner or later. Let's just wait here and see if we can't make the youngest Weasel cry by the time they come round."

At this, the fawning girl smiles indulgently. "Okay. Your idea's much better."

I'm wondering why I'm still standing here now that I know what they're going to try to do to me. So why aren't I walking away, merging with the crowd so that they can't find me? I really am dim sometimes.

"My God, look at her," Malfoy points out, "she just heard me say I'm going to make her pathetic self cry, and here she is, standing, looking at us. Are you really as brainless as your brothers?"

"Well," I start, "I-"

"Oh shut it," Parkinson cuts in, "Whatever you want to say amounts to nothing. You might as well run away right now like a dog with its tail between its legs."

"Damn straight," Malfoy adds with an approving look towards Parkinson, and at this, her face glows.

Bloody hell, what a repulsive girl. I hug my books closer, unsure of what to do. After several seconds of heated mental debating, I turn around to make a run for it when he says harshly, "Stop."

I stop, my foot poised on taking the first step towards freedom.

"Where do you think you're going?" His voice is teasing, bullying.

I swallow an imaginary lump in my throat. "I'm not sure. Anywhere but here though."

"Turn around."

I scratch the binding on my books repeatedly, a nervous habit. My feet are glued to the spot; I'm paralyzed.

"I told you to turn around," he reiterates, an undertone of rancor beneath that lazy drawl.

Hating myself, I slowly, painfully turn around, imagining old, creaking noises coming off of the joints of my legs. I see him smile; it's malicious.

"Much better. Now, why don't you tell me, since you're here, if you really are as stupid and grimy as your brothers."

I blink and stare at this boy who seems to take such delight in torturing my family, our friends, and anything Muggle-related. His blonde hair, much lighter than normal shades, is slicked back neatly without a loose strand in sight. His immaculate clothing parades how much money he has everywhere he walks. His narrowed gray eyes bear down on mine, trying to unnerve me.

And then it hits me. That's all you ever try to do. You walk around school with your lackeys and adoring harlot, insulting people and flaunting your wealth in our faces. I have never seen you do anything else. What do you after school? Do you die of boredom every summer, just lounging around in your huge mansion? Do you count down the days until you finally go back to Hogwarts? It must be really tedious, having nothing else to do.

"Well," he demands suspiciously, "are you?"

A strange smile comes over my face. "Since you say so, I suppose I am."

He takes a step forward and looms over my small form. "Are you mocking me?"

Before I can stop myself, I reply, "You seem to do little else besides abuse us. I might as well let you have some sort of amusement in your otherwise uneventful life."

What did I just say? A hush comes over the aisle I'm in, and it takes a moment for Malfoy to register what I had just said.

His usual pale skin turns whiter, and he's struggling to keep his voice calm as he replies, "That's rich, coming from a Weasley. I mean, what other purpose does your family have? All you do is take up space in this world and crowd Hogwarts with your dumpy mother's offspring."

At this, Parkinson grins wickedly, and Crabbe and Goyle snigger, as if on cue. My face flushes again, and I'm about to make a retort when I feel someone's presence behind me. I turn my head around, and it's them three, looking angry and finished with buying books.

Hermione pulls me to her side protectively, and I can't help but scowl lightly at being treated as a child. Harry and Ron both cross their arms and lock horns with Malfoy while his lackeys crack their knuckles menacingly. Who are they, my bodyguards?

"Malfoy," Harry says stiffly, "don't you have some other slimy business to attend to?"

"Other than conversing with you lot? I don't think so," he replies without missing a beat.

Ron's ears glow red. "Listen you-"

"Ron," Hermione says warningly.

They stare at each other before Ron gives up and turns on his heel, Harry and Hermione following in his wake. Malfoy and Co. guffaw heartily. "That's right; just walk away," he calls out.

It's then he notices that I'm still standing in front of him, and he takes a step forward. "Why don't you just-"

I raise my hand up to him, discovering a hidden amount of gumption I never thought I had. "Why don't you just go about your business now like a good boy? I'm sure whatever you want to spout about can be said later, at Hogwarts."

His mouth hanging open in astonishment is the last thing I see before walking away to catch up with the others. I feel very good about myself right now. It's rather…empowering.

"Did that git do anything to you?" Ron asks anxiously.

"No," I say obediently.

"Are you sure?" Harry adds.

I sigh. "Yes."

"Well," Ron says dubiously, "okay."

"Oh honestly," Hermione chirps in, "you two watch over her too much. She'll never get a boyfriend this way." She laughs.

"I don't want her to have a boyfriend," my brother replies adamantly.

We're outside now, headed towards Madam Malkin's, and the sun is still shining as brightly as it did in the summer. The rays don't feel as warm though, and I can't but think that come winter, the beams will be as cold and unforgiving as the chill in Malfoy's voice.

* * *

I like to think that my readers will review me after this. Won't you make that a reality please? 

And sorry that this moment seemed so out of place with what I first began with. It'll get better, promise.


	2. Autumn

**Disclaimer:** No owning here.

**A/N:** Welcome! I think this chapter holds a special place in my chest cavity because autumn is my favorite season. Eww, let the writing begin!

* * *

It's hard to tell when autumn is here.

In September, it's still warm, too warm to wear a light coat, but chilly enough to have the good sense not to go out in shorts and a tank. The colors start appearing near the end of the month, reds, yellows, and oranges scattering our school's grounds, though the residents take the beauty for granted and continue studying voraciously.

By October, the moon takes over the spotlight, its obnoxious glow obscuring me from gazing at the stars. She is large and floats over the sky, her dance becoming progressively longer as the days grow short. In time, she's all I can see when the sun goes to sleep.

And suddenly, November is upon us, her harsh winds driving everyone inside their homes, stripping trees of their leaves, already brown and decaying, and leaving a thick coat of frost on the hard grass every morning, making everything ugly and bare, preparing the way for winter to come through.

And somehow during those months, summer slips from my sight, and here is this mysterious season, a buffer between extreme heat and extreme cold. I suppose that I get so caught up in the colors and school that somewhere, I forget to say goodbye.

Even so, autumn can be just as beautiful.

The breezes are cool and dry, rushing past us in the open-air hallways, making our skirts swish and our hair blow loosely. Her weather is forgiving and serene, enough to temp me into taking a nap on a Sunday afternoon beside the lake, right on the grass. I breathe in the sharp scent of earth, and it's comforting.

During the summer, the blue in the lake is alive, an intense azure that penetrates deep into its depths. By October, it has transcended into a peaceful, still blue that is beyond me, beyond Hogwarts, beyond everything. The surface of the water reflects that same unmoving serenity up there in the passing gray clouds, not too gray to be mistaken for winter, but no longer that fluffy, stark white a few months ago.

It's the time when I see the birds leave. They're always in groups, often in a V-formation, headed for God-knows-where, to the sunny south, and come back again several months later, living in a perpetual springtime where they are not familiar with the frost and chills. Sometimes I like to look at them flying towards that forever and wish the same could happen to me.

Autumn also means school. Doing homework outside, taking a walk with friends, or hearing the brittle sound of leaves snapping under your feet while you're walking. Falling asleep in class, finishing essays at the last minute, and still finding time to fool around with your mates. It's all worth it.

It's especially worth it to be late for class because you are running around the trees; catching leaves in your hair and trying to see what shade you have caught the most. I often catch red in mine, though it's a bit hard to tell. And even better if you are extremely late because you can't bring yourself to ignore the flock of geese flying overhead, their noise echoing in your ears.

Yes, there's that whole familiarity of school with Hermione and Ron and Harry. The scent of crisp parchment floats around the common room and feathers land in my food after the owls' mail delivery. I find that my favorite reading spot in the library is untouched, secluded and just for me.

So even if my family isn't here with me, I still feel like I'm rich, drenched in autumn spice and wine, that concentrated perfume reeking of apples and cinnamon.

And yet, year after year like clockwork, autumn steals summer away and does not return her to me until after what seems like an eternity has passed. And I have never quite understood why autumn does that.

* * *

I plop myself down on the grass, basking in the cordial October sun, one of the last that we'll be receiving for this year. It's Sunday afternoon, and the lake is right beside me, the watery plane disturbed by a bobbing tentacle. I had completed all my homework on Saturday, at the cost of missing a Hogsmeade visit. No matter. This is worth missing a shopping trip.

I look around, and there aren't many people out here, save a random group of friends heading inside. Content, I open my book and run my fingers down the paper, tracing small-print words. It's one of the books I bought that day in Flourish and Blott's. There was no time to read it until now.

And so I commence my reading.

* * *

There are voices. A murmur, followed quickly by a titter.

"Don't be so damn loud."

"Oh, just go ahead and do it before she wakes up."

"All right, don't rush me."

I hear feet shuffling closer and a pause.

"…"

"Well? Aren't you going to do it?"

"I'm taking my time."

"Don't take so long; it's getting dark."

Dark? How long have I been asleep? And now that it was mentioned, the air does seem cooler, and I can't feel the sun on my face. I'll get up and go back in as soon as they leave. But what are they going to do?

I feel a nudge on my side, and I suck in my breath.

"Cor, she's heavy." The voice is very close, and I can tell that it belongs to a boy.

A huff. "I'm going back in. It's dinner hour." And this is a girl, a whiny one at that.

I can imagine the boy shrugging nonchalantly. "Fine. I'll be in there in a few minutes."

More noises I can't make out. I hear one pair of footsteps walking away, and then it fades out. Moments later, a blunt pressure is applied on my stomach, not enough to make me breathless, but enough for me to gasp and open my eyes. A Malfoy appears over my face, his luminous skin standing out against the twilight.

"You were awake the entire time," he says brusquely.

I patiently let my arms lay still at my sides. "You woke me up. Mind letting me get up?"

"Actually, I do mind," he replies, crossing his arms. The pressure increases noticeably, and I swallow a hard lump in my throat. It doesn't hurt yet.

"You could have done it when she was here," I point out, "Why now?"

Some leaves float gently downward, landing at his feet. They were already brown, no longer that lovely shade of yellow I had seen a few weeks before.

He shrugs. "She doesn't have to witness all my acts of cruelty."

I quickly grab a hold of Malfoy's foot and squeeze, hard. He lets out a yelp of disgust, but doesn't move an inch. He presses deep, for a split second, and I wince, my face draining of color. His foot relaxes again, and I'm taking deep, gulping breaths, for once afraid that he might actually go through with injuring me. Perhaps even worse.

An ugly sneer twists his features. "Not so full of smart answers now, are you, you little tart?"

I manage to raise an eyebrow and suppress my anger at being called a whore. "Tart? Where's your mandatory greeting of 'Weasel'?"

"Tsk, tsk." He shakes a finger. "Don't you Weasleys ever know when to keep your mouth closed? And, also," he adds with a glint in his eye, "your _openings_?"

I widen my eyes and feel a rush of red coming back to my face. "Your dad's obviously scared of a strong, _able_ heir taking over the fortune and estate during his prime years. Why else would he take up with a frail, fluttering lady and father something like you?"

Again, that sudden adrenaline rush I felt back in August. It's exhilarating.

He narrows his eyes. "Pity that you're in Gryffindor. Slytherin could do with a tongue like yours, though old Salazar might have a hard time letting you in, with what your dirty blood and all."

I lay my head down on the ground, tired and exasperated. "Is that all you can say? Is everything that comes out of your mouth all about blood? You have no imagination, Malfoy. And I'm assuming that You-Know-Who likes some sick sort of creativity."

He raises an eyebrow. "And how would you know about that? Perhaps my father's whisperings of a certain Weasel opening the Chamber are true after all. Shame that Riddle could have chosen a better candidate. You can't even get up."

My stomach growls loudly in protest and at this he laughs. "Hungry?"

"Quite."

"Starve," he says with a sneer.

"I'd rather not. You see, when my brothers notice my absence at the table, they will go searching for me and eventually, they will find me here, under your foot and quite hungry."

The pressure on my gut lessens, but he still won't lift his damn foot up. "I see you're running to your Muggle-loving family again. Pathetic."

I purse my lips, my patience growing thinner by the second. "I want to eat dinner Malfoy. I know you want to too, and sooner or later Parkinson is going to come out here looking for you."

The sky is now completely dark, and I can barely make out the winding trail leading to the front door of Hogwarts. The lights merrily dance around the window, a flicker of shadow appearing here or there. And then I'm looking at him again, willing his mind to command his foot to rise. He takes on a thoughtful look, and I was taken aback for a moment that he could even assume such an expression.

After some time of deep contemplation, of which I can imagine only the foulest notions were flitting about in there, he leans forward, his hands in his robe pockets. "I'll only let you go," he announces clearly, as if I was a simpleton, "if you tell me what the hell possessed you to talk to me like that back in August, at Flourish and Blott's."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

He sighs theatrically. "That day we caught you alone, probably talking to yourself before we came. You didn't run away and not only that, you mocked, disrespected, and made an outright fool of me. And in front of Parkinson too no less. So what were you on when you said that?"

His voice is dead flat when he says this, almost as if he was hiding his genuine curiosity of wanting to know what went on in my mind that day, that distinct moment. "I only wish that I had said that sooner to you," I answer and attempt to move his foot away. Still not budging.

His jaw twitches. "You still haven't told me why. I'm not kidding when I say I will press down until you cannot breathe." His voice is dripping with sudden venom. I know he will. Unfortunately, I don't why I told him off, much less remember what I said.

I have no choice but to give him a reason. "Because," I say, choosing my words carefully, "I felt bold and wanted someone to put you down for once. I took the chance."

"No one," he states, "can _ever_ put me down. No matter how low the insult."

I chuckle with little mirth. "At least I tried. I felt pretty damn good after that too so it wasn't all for nothing."

"You have little to be happy about anyway," sneers Malfoy.

I attempt to sit up. "I told you why so lift your foot or I'll scream. And I'm not kidding either."

He scowls, but releases me. I stand up, dusting the dirt off of the back of my robes. He instantly takes on his usual smirk. "Here, you missed the rest of yourself." He gestures towards my face, the front of my robes, and my shoes.

I shrug. "At least I can rid myself of my filth simply by taking a bath."

Before he can say anything, I walk off, my stomach growling as loudly as it can.

"Ginny," Hermione hisses once I'm seated next to her in the converted dining Hall, "where were you?"

I gulp down a spoonful of pudding. "I was reading a book and just lost track of time."

She nods, understanding that kind of situation, and turns back to her plate of victuals. Ron burps deafeningly, earning a glare from the rest of the table, and leans back on his chair. "Don't see why anyone would nearly skip dinner to read a book. I almost went looking for you, thought something bad happened to you."

I wave my hand dismissively. "I can take care of myself, thank you."

"Yeah Ron," Harry cuts in, "At least she can clean her room and do her homework. Unlike a certain friend of mine…"

"Hey," Ron protests.

I smile inwardly and turn my attention to the other House tables, particularly a green and silver-clad one. Parkinson is clinging to the arm of Malfoy, looking worried while he looks rather henpecked. They say something; she grins indulgently and, if possible, holds on tighter. He politely tries to pry her off, but to no avail.

It's then that he happens to glance across the table and meet my eyes. I don't break away and continue to stare impassively. He gives me an odd look for a moment, completely devoid of smirks and sneers. I'm startled and blink. The strange expression is gone, and he's back to eating again.

"Ginny, what are you staring at?"

"What?" I look at who's addressing me, and it's Harry, smiling curiously. The green in his eyes really are pleasant to look at. To my frustration, I blush slightly and murmur, "Nothing really."

He seems not to notice. "Okay," he says and goes back to talking to Hermione.

Malfoy is such a bastard. And it abruptly occurs to me as I'm walking back to Gryffindor that I could have screamed at any time, and help would surely have come within minutes. So why didn't I scream? It could have been that I did not think of that earlier, but I did so that can't be it. And we had been outside for quite a bit.

I really don't understand myself sometimes.

* * *

Yeah! Another one done! I'm on a roll here! –pumps fist into air-

Now review people!


	3. Winter

**Disclaimer:** Don't own it. –grumblegrumble-

**A/N:** I apologize if "Winter" looks like it's going nowhere. I hope that all you readers out there are enjoying this so far. Oh yeah, I noticed that my season pieces are becoming progressively longer. W00t!1

I also like to tell you readers that the moment doesn't always necessarily go with the tone and personality of the season. I did not specify that in the summary 'kay?

* * *

When I was small, winter frightened me. 

If people's vision of winter is an old man with a walking stick, hunched over, then they are sorely mistaken. Winter is nowhere near so decrepit and gray; she's a seductress dressed in white, her cheeks a frosty glass and her lips blood red. Her eyes are steely, her skin nearly transparent, and when she howls, nothing but arctic gales fly from her ruddy mouth.

The tree branches would snap and crack under piles of snow, moan and sigh from the wind's relentless lashing. The noises often intensified at night, and I would snuggle deep inside the covers, burying my face in the threadbare pillow, shivering uncontrollably. More often than not, I'd wake up to every winter morning with a fever, my nose bright red, and Mum standing at my side with a bowl of hot soup.

It made me mad to see my brothers dashing outside with whoops and yells, running headlong into the snow. Usually they wouldn't come back in until dinner, breathless, their clothes instantly wet and soggy once inside the warm house. And I'll be sitting there, wrapped in a thick blanket, glaring reproachfully at them as they related events of snowball fights, angel imprints on the ground, and who had made the biggest snowman.

When I did get to go outside, though, I played as hard as any of them, hollering and crashing through their snowmen, determined to show that yes, I am one of them, but yes, I'm _better_. Of course, Ron or the twins would then laugh and cry, "Dog pile on Ginny!" It was rowdy, and I loved it. All that was back before they saw me differently, before I was a delicate, _female_ Ginny. To them, I was their sister, the same in every aspect I can think of save our gender.

Christmas was a huge affair, complete with gifts for each member of our immediate family, a substantial dinner feast, and a carol sung at the very end, near midnight. We each had our turn to pick a song year after year, though eventually we had ran out of carols and so we repeated, frequently with substituted words and phrases that made us all laugh.

My brothers and I would receive our standard sweater, courtesy of Mum, and perhaps a special treat, if we were lucky, and that past year was good. Sometimes I would get a new item of clothing, but that was rare and all the more precious. I would try to give Mum something too with the money that I had somehow managed to scrape up during the year, but as always, I never quite managed to raise enough funds.

At school, the teachers are lenient and jolly from the impending holidays. Everyone is merry, their cheeks rosy and full. Even the Slytherins are not as snarky, the Gryffindors not as obnoxious.

Winter also comes in the form of mistletoe, scattered about our school grounds like booby traps, ready to ensnare an unsuspecting boy and a hopeful girl. Luckily, no one has tried anything on me yet, though the fact that I have 3 brothers constantly by my side seems to help too.

The lake has a thin icy layer over it, undisturbed until the end of February, and the snow blankets the roads and meandering trails, making it near impossible to trudge through unless you have a shovel. My breaths come in little huffs and puffs, and I wave my hand through the ersatz fog I make.

And even though it has been several years since I was but a child at the Burrow, winter still scares me when I am at my most vulnerable. Some nights when I can't sleep and look out the window, the snow drifts towards the ground, a harsh white against a backdrop of navy blue, never black. Never completely black. Everyone is blissfully asleep in their beds, including the portraits and the Trio even.

And that's when it hits me, on those kinds of nights. It's quiet, painfully so, without a noise to focus on except my own shallow breathing, and if I hold my breath long enough, there's a dull thump in my ears, the sounds of my heartbeat filling that silent void. There's quiet, and then there's _quiet_, the sort of peace that is forced on, smothering everything, like death.

Yes. More than anything, winter reminds me of death and the torpid hush it brings along soon after.

* * *

I'm awake. Sheets way over my head, covering me whole. Shuffle, shuffle, deeper into the mattress, hug the pillow tighter. It's really warm. Let's just stay inside for the rest of the day. 

It can't be morning. Not yet. What day is it? Groggily I open my eyes, rubbing them. I throw the covers off of me, gasping sharply at the sudden chill, hard little bumps instantly appearing on my arms. I sit up in bed, drawing the blankets closer.

It's the weekend the rational part of mind states. Saturday was yesterday. Oh right. Of course. I mentally slap a hand to my forehead. …All right time for sleep again. I dive back in once more, burying myself underneath the cottony warmth, not at all threadbare.

I lay there listening to other people's breathing for a few minutes before I softly groan. Can't fall back asleep again. Damn. I might as well get up and walk around. There's nothing else to do; everyone's knocked out until at least eleven. I look out the window, the sky only just beginning to lighten. It would be a few hours before the pink of dawn would creep across the light blue.

Sighing loudly, I slide off of the bed and head towards the bathroom…

* * *

The snow stopped a few minutes ago. I'm building an abysmal snowman, my first one since winter began. I have less than a week left before I'm off to the Burrow, with Harry and Hermione possibly coming along. The gloves on my hands are doing nothing to ward off the cold as I pack the snow against the snowman, smoothing the edges, making the figure rotund. 

I'm working on the snowman's middle body. The head is on the ground, awaiting my numb fingers. I blow on my hands and rub them. Still cold. _Very_ cold. Since this snowman is my first one in a while, it's rather difficult to discern from two giant lumps of snow. I'm trying though.

* * *

Half an hour has passed. The once pink sky is blocked from my gaze by dreary, wintry clouds. I had forgotten how hard it was to build the perfect snowman. But, I'm almost finished. The head is distinguishable; the only thing lacking is a pair of arms. I look around for two skinny branches. I find a pair lying conveniently on the hard ground a few yards away. I walk over and bend down to pick them up when a decidedly loud crunch was heard. 

It was the kind of crunch the snow makes when it's grinded to the earth. I quickly turn around to see a person pushing all of my hard work to the ground. Within moments, my snowman was dead. Armless. Oh the humanity. The person has light blonde hair and is looking my way. Oh hell, not him again.

He has that smirk on as I'm marching through snow towards my deceased snowman. I glance down at my time and effort, wasted. I sigh. He sneers. The world goes on.

"I took one look at that pathetic lump of a snow figure and decided to improve it for you," he states, "It looks so much better don't you think?"

I look at him blankly. "Did you just randomly show up here to destroy my snowman?"

He shrugs, that sneer still plastered on. "I woke up early, took a walk round, and came upon the monstrosity. I put it out of its misery. You should thank me."

I can only shake my head and sigh again. "Look, if you're here to bother me, do what you normally do and be off. I really don't see the point of you putting me down all the time."

I'm not sure, but something about him always makes me feel exasperated, ready to snap. I already feel uncomfortable enough simply standing in front of him because of the money differences, but all the same he puts my senses on high alert. Hence the sudden bursts of audacity and wit coming out of my big mouth.

He raises an eyebrow, dusts some snow off of his shoulders. "Because, Weasel, it's fun. Besides, as you have said before, I have nothing else to do so why shouldn't I waste my time and leisure on the less fortunate?"

I blink, my eyes growing wide. He remembers? It's in the middle of December, and he still remembers all the way back to August? He really must have nothing else to do. However, he speaks the truth, and I can't say anything. I let the seconds drag by until he realizes that I have no response and smirks again.

"Can't say anything for once? What happened to all the clever wordplay? I knew it wouldn't last forever."

I rub my hands and cough. "I didn't feel like saying anything. Now, if we're just going to stand out here and talk all day, I suggest that we cut this conversation short now. I'm losing the feeling in my fingers, and you will too, soon."

"I won't, not with these," he says, holding up his hands to show off a costly looking pair of dragon hide gloves. I gulp. What I wouldn't give to wear them right now as I look down to see own pair of ratty gloves. "And in the very latest style," he adds with a flourish.

"Which I'm sure your precious Daddy bought just for you," I mutter, "Impractical."

He crosses his arms. "Indulgence."

"Overkill."

"You're just jealous."

"Jealous of you? What ever could you have that I would possibly want?" I regret to admit that I'm slightly smiling as I say this.

His eyes had a glint. "Countless things."

I wave my hand dismissively. "Things of which I'm sure that are small and inconsequential."

"Aren't you demeaning yourself a bit?"

"Not in the least."

He stares, and I stare back just as vehemently. I'm having another lucid conversation with Malfoy. Is it really he or a nice boy in disguise because, surely, someone like him doesn't plainly talk to someone like me?

Abruptly, there is a slow _creak _and a _crash_. A moment later, snow from tree branches hanging over us fell to the ground. Well it would have had it not been that we were in their way. I spit out a mouthful of very cold water while Malfoy lets out a stream of colorful expletives that Peeves would have appreciated. I'm sure I look lovely right now with snow in my bright red hair. What a ludicrous sight.

"Damn it! I just washed my hair!" he gripes, "Stupid snow!"

What a baby. "You were the one who decided to go outside in the first place," I shrewdly point out.

"Oh shut up!" he snaps, "What do I care about what _you_ think?"

I open and shut my mouth, surprised and a bit…something. It's a weird feeling, and it takes a few seconds for me to realize that I'm talking to Malfoy. Right, I almost forgot. Strange.

He dusts the snow off of him in short, jerky movements, grumbling angrily all the while. When he's done he straightens his posture and tries to assume his normal, intimidating pose. Snow is still laced is his hair, however, and I think I'll refrain from informing him. After all, what does it matter what _I_ say?

There's a light flush of healthy color on his cheeks, and his hair is somewhat mussed from the snow, with strands of blonde poking out. He's still glaring at me with those insolent eyes of his, but at least he's not saying anything right now. Crap, I jinxed it.

"What are you looking at?" he demands. I realize that I've been staring at him all this time, and immediately my eyes look at something else. Yes, I jinxed it.

"I was trying to figure that out," I couldn't resist replying. My mouth will be the death of me; I swear.

He scowls. "You won't ever shut that mouth of yours, will you?"

My gaze begins to drift elsewhere, away from this conversation. "Afraid not."

"Then," he says, crouching down," I'll just have to shut it for you."

And before I can react, he packs a snowball and hurls it right into my face. The force of impact sends me stumbling backwards. My eyes are stinging; I've got ice-cold water in my mouth and nose. I sputter and cough, startled, and wipe the snow off of my face.

He smirks, his bad mood gone. I stare at the ground, unsure of what to do until the irrational part of my mind takes over, and I quickly scoop up some snow, pack it, and chuck the damn snowball right at that snobby, aristocratic nose. Surprise is clearly registered on his features before he deftly catches it with _one hand_, forgetting that I had thrown it quite forcefully.

So the snowball explodes into thousands of tiny shards in his hand, a lot of them peppering his face, which includes his nose, and I am pleased. He wipes his face clean and throws me a scathing glare.

"Huh, whatever happened to that weak-minded Potter-lover I saw back then?" he mutters.

I blink. "There's no need to bring him into this."

"Aw, protecting your lover?" he coos, "Or should I say your bloody _god_?"

He's not my god. I sigh and chuckle. "I should have known there is no level too low for a Malfoy to stoop to. I've always wondered why your family put up such a noble façade anyway, spouting on about honor or some other bollocks like that."

"We _are_ Slytherins," he proclaims and stands up a little straighter, "We know our goals and are not easily distracted by some virtuous need to right all things. Not like you lot, with your loud-mouthed speeches of defending the weak and to always take that right path."

I instantly think of Harry and Ron, and all their schemes to thwart Riddle. "Sometimes," I answer quietly to myself, "the right path isn't always so straight."

"Your House never knows when to shut up," Malfoy continues (I think it ironic); "It's constantly about the damn greater good. You could pick up a thing or two from us. Maybe we could even get you…recruited."

I know he's joking. He must be. I widen my eyes and look at him incredulously. "It's not always black and white between the Houses," I reply, my voice still soft, "Surely you all of people must know that. Just because you're in Gryffindor doesn't automatically place you at odds with Slytherin and Riddle. You're not a follower of Riddle by default if you're placed in Slytherin. That House embodies other qualities too. All the other Houses do."

"So even when you're in Gryffindor and your intentions are in the right place, that doesn't mean your ways of reaching your objectives are always so straightforward and safe."

It's the truest thing I've said all day, and I'm surprised that I even came up with something like this. I stand in front of him, feeling awkward and stupid. It's still frightfully cold, and I'm not getting any warmer if I continue to stand here.

He looks at me for the longest moment before shaking his head. With one eyebrow raised, he says, "If that was the case, you've had all the chances in the world to stop your little friends from doing Merlin-knows-what. Isn't that right?"

The word comes out before I can stop myself. "What?" Yes, one-word questions are so eloquent, Ginny.

As predicted, he sighs theatrically. "What I mean is that somewhere in your empty head, you should have realized by now that everything your _friends_ have been scheming and planning and _doing_ are precisely what you just said. And if it's true what I said, which it is, then you've had all the opportunities to stop them. So why haven't you? Is it maybe because you aren't exactly good yourself? Hmm, perhaps there is more than meets the eye."

I open and close my mouth; he's made me speechless _again_. Why is he always doing that? It's true, all of it, and I keep on refusing to make sense of it. I don't try to stop them; I only watch, and they leave me alone. I know what they're doing is wrong, but somehow…

Am I weak then?

"Weasley," he says sharply, and I meet his eyes again. The expression on his face is oddly sober. I gulp involuntarily.

He narrows his eyes. "Don't you have anything to say?"

I have many things to say. You're wrong; I'm not weak. I'm not. The next time I see Harry, Ron, and Hermione trying something, I will speak up. Attempt to stop them because playing dirty isn't their job; it's yours. They're not meant to play the game like that. It doesn't suit Harry. I bet he feels horrible. He just has to.

I'm staring at Malfoy, stringing nonsensical words together in my head, when my eyes wander yet again. Most of the snow is brushed off of his hair, though the white in some of the ice makes the blonde stand out more. I've always liked that shade of light blonde. It reminds me of an innocent child, for some reason. His posture is ramrod straight, taken directly from the traditional Malfoy upbringing, I suppose, and I've got to admire that.

It's delicate and yet strong, the way he looks, like the silk of a spider's web. I know what his hands can do, but it's unnerving to hide that strength in such a thin body. The robes just seem to hang on him.

The pastel white of the background makes his skin look even paler, like a ghost, and it makes me notice the dark hollows under his eyes, how tired and stressed he is. The eyes are a very nondescript gray, as blank as the stones on the school walls, and all they do is reflect, like there's nothing underneath, nothing worth mentioning about him.

The way he looks is haunting, and suddenly, I understand him a bit more than I used to.

"No, Malfoy," I say slowly, finding my voice at last, "for once, you win this verbal match. I'm going back inside, and you should too."

He looks taken aback for a second, but recovers quickly with a smirk. "What should you care about what I do?"

I shrug. "I don't know. You just look cold, standing there like you're waiting for something, but I don't know what it is that you're waiting for."

I leave it at that and watch him walk off without another word, leaving footprints on the blank snow that will eventually be covered again. I don't have anything more to say to him for today.

* * *

YEAH! Go me! Well, this turned out longer than I'd expected, but I'm ultimately pleased with the results. So please me some more by reviewing! 


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